The Boy with Words
by RaphSai03
Summary: There was a boy, whose words were as blissful as a warm summer day. He would be my only friend, my source of life. One day, I would fall for him, hard. We would love each other, we would accept each other. And boy, how terrible that would end. HUMAN AU/LeonardoxRaphael/R&R
1. Chapter 1

I didn't see him coming, not in the long run. One second I'm walking briskly—my head down, glaring at the fraying carpet beneath my freshly polished loafers, with hands clenched at my sides—and the next, my stiff face as collided with his chest. His fabric bearing chest.

The shirt is made of cotton, a soft fabric that I would wear everyday if it weren't for my school uniform. Crimson red dye makes his emerald eyes stand out gloriously, like the north star against the quilted Galaxy. His hair plays the role of the planets. Every fiber, every filament, appears to be silky, and I can't help but wonder what it would feel like to run my long fingers through those precious brown locks.

His hands on my shoulders are what keep me from falling back. He steadies me, a calming, concerning stare pouring into my eyes. I could gaze at him forever.

"Are you alright?" His words are creamy and sweet, an effortless enticement, by the looks of it.

I nod, feeling sheepish. Blood rushes to my face.

He underlines my response with a sleek smirk. I like the way his face glows.

More words follow, but I don't process them, because I'm watching his faultless body bend down to lift a backpack out from beneath a chair beside me. I'm left hoping it wasn't a question he asked.

When he straightens his posture, I get a real good look at him. I quickly pick up on his muscles—the broad curves of his biceps, his elegantly sculpted calves. Only about two inches taller than me, I come to wonder just how it was that I face planted into the face of his chest, rather than us bonking heads. His hurried manner is an excuse enough for me to believe that he was running, his feet lifted off of the ground as he sprinted. He was flying, his angel wings outstretched; and I ran into him, disrupting his grace entirely. I want to say that I am sorry, but I'm not sure where the words have gone. There's nothing in my mind but him and the voices.

Three voices. One more than there were two minutes ago.

As usual, they scream at me, three voices shouting in menacing, frightful tones. Their calls fill me with dread and even though I am aware that this is all just my imagination. I dare not believe what my loved ones have told me.

My therapist, Dr. Chet Allen, and my parents both repeatedly tell me, on a daily basis, with persistence flooding their words, "It's not real, it's all in your head."

It doesn't feel like it's in my head, though. It feels certain, an undeniable truth.

The voices convince me that the people I pass on the street are out to get me, that they want me dead. In the halls at school, when my peers are trailing behind me, the voices say that they're following me as a way of getting to my parents, so they can kill my family.

Just picture what it would be like to have a thousand people shouting at you all at once. They block out the rest of the world, they distract you from your every day tasks, and they hurt you in ways you never expected possible.

Hardly anyone understands the lonesome battle I pursue on a daily basis.

For the red cladded boy in front of me, the one I've just barely met, the one with eyes painted with more emotion in a mere glimpse than I've ever felt in my entire 17 years of living, the voices are surprisingly calm. Like the wind after a storm, smooth, and silent.

There's three voices; two of which are male, one female. Right now their words are slurred, coming out all at once. I can't hear anything else, they won't shut up.

"Who is he?" The first voice is the one I'm most used to; and probably, the one I like best. He speaks with a vast amount of curiosity, asking questions I find to be valid. He doesn't overwhelm me with the anxiety the other two voices feed me.

"I bet he's part of the government, here to finish you off!" Voices number two. She's enthusiastic, to say the least. Constantly yelling over and over, coming to quick assumptions with the little mind I suppose she doesn't have. Her continuous statements are brutal.

"Run, boy. Run far away from him—be safe." The third voice is a whisper, but that doesn't make it better. He hisses sharply, and it sounds as if someone had sharpened his rolling tongue with a dagger.

The boy scares the voices away—thank god—when he places a large, delicate hand just between my shoulder blades. "You look a little panicked, would you be willing to let me walk you home?"

I nod my head and clear my throat. "No, I would not mind at all."

He guides me outside of the therapist's office, onto the sidewalk. Together, we set a brisk pace. He doesn't speak for a while, and neither do I. Every few moments, though, I can feel his emerald green eyes sneak over to me. They travel up and down my body, studying me like a painter does his model. Like Da Vinci had Mona Lisa.

"You don't talk much, do you?" He teases me, gazing at me with a tilted head and a puzzled expression.

He earns a smile for that card, a bright one, too. The edges of my thin lips defy gravity, floating upwards until I'm practically grinning. "I find that people prefer when I don't speak."

"Well, that isn't very kind," he says it like it's a shame, though, I pick up on the slight annoyance in his voice, as if he would rather play a part in real conversation, one with a beginning, middle, and end. So, he asks more questions. "How old are you?"

"17. And you?"

"Same age." Well isn't that a coincidence.

He asks many questions; where do I go to school? What are my hobbies? What is my family like? I answer them all with utter honesty, and then I repeat the inquiry.

The voices in my head begin to speak once more, but this time, with an alternate tone than before. Calmly, they murmur all together, all at once, in perfect synchronization, "Trust him, he will do you good. Trust him, he will protect you from the ones who desire you gone."

I find this to be strange, for more than one reason. First off, the voices are never so kind to people, not even my parents and therapist. Especially not my parents and therapist. Second, I barely know this guy. I don't even know his name, and the voices are speaking as though we met years ago, and have been best friends since. That isn't the case.

"What are you obsessed with?" The boy asks the question casually, as if it were completely normal to ask a stranger what they loved.

"Like, a fandom?" I seek clarification to the odd inquiry spoken by my companion.

"Not just a fandom, just whatever. We all have that one guilty pleasure," mischief highlights the last two words.

Chuckling, I reply, "Well, I wouldn't exactly call it a guilty pleasure, but I do really like Space Heroes." Sheepish, my face is flustered. Once pale, now pink. "What about you?" Taking the spotlight off of me in a most courteous way.

His face is expressionless, a mere flat lined mouth and dull eyes as he states, "Words," plain and simple. Words.

There's something awfully curious about this boy, perhaps from the calmness in his voice while mine shakes and quivers. Or it could be the contradiction between his erect posture and hands lazily stuffed in the pockets of his dark, denim jeans that I find to be peculiar. Yet, it isn't either of these oddities that send me into an ocean of bemusement, but rather, his response; words. Crystal clear, he'd announced it. This boy is obsessed with words.

My brow furrows and I fixate my gaze into the sidewalk, not wanting to offend him with my startled expression. "Words? Is that a book or movie?"

He shakes his head, and, despite the vigorous motion, his hair doesn't get messed up, it stays perfect. Obedience. "No. Just words. Like what we speak, what we read. They fascinate me."

"How so?" Now I'm intrigued, eating at his words like a famished wold.

We're nearing my apartment building, in defiance of my longing to stay and talk longer. This is the longest conversation I've held with someone my age in a while, I'm not sure I'm prepared to let it go, especially considering I'll most likely never see this boy again.

"I guess it amazes me how you can build somebody up, make their day, give them a reason to get out of bed every morning, or, you can burn their bridges, and hurt them with scars no person should bare, with only a short collection of syllables." I've never thought of it that way, up until now, when I'm walking down the unusually empty streets of Manhattan. Props to the stranger pacing beside me.

I don't have to tell him that this is my apartment building, he clearly understands when I halt just before we reach the parking lot. "Okay, wait. So I know that you're 17, obsessed with space heroes, go to Roosevelt Academy—the best Christian private school in the city—and you're an only child who has no body to hang out with, but, I don't know your name." There's a hint of tease in his voice. It compliments his small, genuine smile nicely, like a flower crown on a teenage girl wearing a flowy dress.

I realize, as I comprehend these words, that we didn't properly introduce ourselves. We were so caught up in crafting a conversation, making for names to be unimportant. Either that, or he didn't care who I was up until now. I'll go with the former, for my own sanity.

"Leo. And you are . . ?"

He fills in the blank, where my sentence is left empty, while backing away, down the street, most likely, on his way home; "Raphael."

* * *

Raphael. The name stuck with me all through the night, like gum on an old tennis shoe. I couldn't get him out of my mind, the boy who scared the isolation away so he could offer me a sweet slice of friendship pie. Well, not friendship exactly, more like an acquaintanceship, but we'll just say that on that day, we were standing on the thin line dividing the two statuses.

If I recall correctly, all through the evening, and well into the night, my mother asked me if I was alright. "You seem a little distant," She'd chimed, her painted lips parting with every syllable, coming back together only to reinforce the bittersweet silence of our penthouse. My father was in his office, and his voice was muffled by the thick walls as he talked business through the phone.

Contempt on working in peace, with as minimum conversation possible, I responded with a short suggestion, "I'm just tired." It wasn't a lie, no, I have never lied to my parents, and I was not about to start now. Though, I shall admit, I was very vague as to what I was tired of.

My mother thought I was filled with exhaustion, earned from a long day at school. It wasn't as simple as that, it's never been straightforward in my life. Everything about me is so complex, so draining. Usually, by this time, I'd be laying in my bed, staring blankly at the wall across from me, listening to the voices in my head wail, thinking to myself, "Another long night without a drop of sleep." Tonight is different though, for I haven't heard the voices since I was on the sidewalk earlier this afternoon, when they told me to trust the boy I now can refer to as Raphael.

I'm not filled with exhaustion, no, I'm filled with life. For once. For once. For once.

"Maybe you should go lay down in bed, that always helps, doesn't it?" It never helps, no, but right now I'm looking for any excuse the be alone, so I pick up my laptop and cross the threshold.

In my bedroom, I turn on the lights and ceiling fan, and take a seat at my desk. Wasting no time at all, I google the name "Raphael."

The first results are the famous Renaissance artist, and I begin to wonder if his parents had named their son after the well-known painter.

Scrolling down more, I read that the name means, "God is Healed," resulting in my thinking that his name could easily be translated to, "Proof that God Exists," which is silly of me, but true. He looked like a god, walked and talked like a god, to me, he was a god.

And for a while, I would think of him as just that; a god. Slowly, though, I would realize that he isn't as picture perfect as I'd originally thought. Though, that was good, that I realized his flaws, that he made mistake, that he was, in fact, human. Because even with this knowledge, I accepted him into my life. And god, would I regret that.


	2. Chapter 2

Ticking clock. Fast moving pencils. Notes being passed. Students peaking at other people's tests. Flipping papers. Silence. An endless quiet fills the room, drowning my peers in peace and serenity.

Then there's me. I sit in the far back corner of the room, with my head bent lower than others. Contempt on being as small and unnoticeable as possible. I melt into the stillness of the classroom.

I'm not fortunate enough to be able to take my exam with an empty head, all except for the facts and things I studied in preparation. Instead, voices scream in my head, their voices echoing throughout my skull.

I can't take it.

My hand shakes and I clench my teeth so fiercely that I'm afraid they might shatter into a million pieces. My eyes are wide and I can't seem to focus on my test, the one that will determine which college I get accepted into. I need to pass, but everything is just so overwhelming.

"Find the boy. Find him!"

"You'll die if you don't have him with you."

"No, you won't die, he'll die. And all of the blood will be on your hands!"

It's all becoming too much too fast, I can't focus. I'm scared.

Why do they always have to yell? Why must they give me such an ear splitting headache? All I've ever wanted was one day of peace, one day where everything could be calm. I guess I'll just never get what I want, will I?

There has only been one time when the voices were kind and respectful; yesterday afternoon, with Raphael—a boy I'll most likely never see again. Which is rather sad, honestly. All my life I've been praying, dreaming, wishing for a friend, and right when I think I could've found one, he's an utter stranger. I suppose I'm just not meant to be happy.

People are handing in their tests, but I'm only on the second page. I need to hurry. But pressuring myself to get work done only makes the voices louder.

The third voice—he just joined this freak show recently, and he talks like a small child, a young boy—screams over the other two. "Raphael is near! Outside the school! Hurry, before you miss him!" No, no, no.

The other two follow his lead, urging me to get up and leave. Jokes on them, I've been trying to find an excuse to leave this goddamn school all day. Finally, they've given me one.

My pencil snaps under my forceful grip, and the entire class turns to me. The teacher stands, a disgruntled expression on her wrinkly face.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply with flared nostrils. When I exhale, I'm ready to go. Grabbing my backpack, I head out the door. No questions asked. They let me go.

...

I didn't waste any time when it came to grabbing my backpack. I was ready to get the hell out of this dump.

No one in the office saw me as I walked out of the school. It almost made me angry, because that would mean that not only do the authorities not pay attention to their students, but no one is here to argue with me—the one time I'm in the mood for brawl, tch, figures. At the same time, though, the ability to walk right out the front doors makes me feel invisible; exactly what I've always wanted to be.

I don't drive to school, my parents pick me up and drop me off every day, therefore, I'll have to walk home. It won't be a problem, I'm sure that when my parents get word that I left school early they'll drive to hell and back trying to find me. Drive because they're too rich to walk. I'm not even worth that much to them.

Wearing a scowl, my eyes wander around, bouncing off of cars and onto others. I have to force myself to take a deep, relaxing breath after a few moments, as to not blow up in an explosion of fury.

The voices were wrong, as usual. Raphael isn't out here. He's nowhere. And yet, everywhere.

He surrounds my every thought, making my mind seem complete, whole, undeterred by the let down that he isn't near me. I decided, right here, in this moment, as I stood alone in my school parking lot, that I would make it my goal to find the boy with the Crimson, cotton shirt, and emerald eyes that could light up the world. Well, no, not the world. The Galaxy.

Sighing, I mumble under my warm, heavy breaths, "This is just a minor set back. You'll be okay, you'll see. Just gotta wait for it."

* * *

The sky was growing to be rather cloudy, and I swear, I could practically smell the rain that was so obviously well on its way.

I was nearing the exit of the school parking lot when I heard it; a voice that I'd been reimagining for the past 21 hours. Raphael's voice.

It started out distant, but it was drawing closer and closer, cornering me, filling my ears. I halted immediately; afraid. I'm not sure what scared me more, the fact that he was here, at my school, or how the voices were right, he was in the parking lot.

All of the blood stains from my face and I shudder, stiff with fright. 'How?,' is all I can manage to think as I slowly turn around.

He's running towards me, his hair flying upward. A thin, light blue Hollister sweater hugs his torso in an embrace I'd take pride in holding him in. Beige cargo shorts are clasped onto him by the aid of a dark brown belt. He waves at me, a grin plastered on his perfectly sculpted face. I try for a smile, but fail.

We meet at the middle, save for a few foot gap. I feel awkward, tugging on my right arm, gnawing on my lip. My eyes seem to land everywhere but his face; I'm afraid to meet his glance.

"Well look who it is," I'd call the grin on his face smug, though, that would be damning it. Instead, we'll go with satisfied.

"How did you find me?" I blurt. I'm shaking uncontrollably, worse than I'd been in the class room. Raphael doesn't seem to notice my quivering body; he's too focused on my face. No one's eyes have ever poured into me like his do.

"You told me where you go to school," he says. "I figured we could hang out."

I shake my head with a furrowed brow, confusion sweeping across my face. "I don't even know you," I whisper. It seems inhuman that he could hear me. Super sense, I suppose.

"I know that," he rolls his eyes. "But I want to get to know you."

My eyes widen. This is the first time someone has ever asked to hang out with me, and then admit to wanting to be my friend. Actually, no, not friend, he didn't use that word. Still, this is something big.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, then back again.

I'm not very good at conversation, I don't know how to respond. Even when I'm talking to my parents I give short, wary responses. The only person I've ever felt safe around is my therapist.

"So, do you wanna grab a bite to eat?" Raphael is tilting his head as he studies me calmly, in a collected fashion. His eyes barely move an inch away from mine, making me feel more at bay.

I shrug, then shake my head. "I'm not very hungry," I murmur. It's rude, yet honest. The voices in my head are still wailing, begging for attention, draining me of everything I've got. I think I might throw up.

"We can just get drinks. A milkshake or smoothie?" He isn't going to let this go, I have a feeling. He seems persistent, and far beyond stubborn. That's why I give in.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later and there we are, sitting across each other in a long, red cushioned booth at a small diner that over looks Coney Island. A small strawberry milkshake is on the table in front of me, with little drops of water coating the outside of the cup. When I take a sip, its sweeter than anything on a day like today. I didn't realize it till now, but this is exactly the sorta thing I needed.

Raphael stirs his straw around a glass of water, something he ordered in accompaniment to his mango smoothie. He's quiet, for awhile. It doesn't take long for him to light the match for a conversation.

"I'm sorry if I scared you earlier. I realized last night that I never got your number, and I figured that approaching you would be the next best thing."

I allow for my head to fall towards my right shoulder, and a thoughtful expression to rest upon my face. "You're fine. Honestly, I wanted to see you again, too."

"Really?" Raphael made it out be the most curious thing in the world. He seemed intrigued.

"Yeah." I chuckled, realizing how pathetic I must look, with my sweat-covered brow and shifting eyes that can't stay in one place for more than a second. "I get a bullied a lot at school," here comes that unneeded excuse, "and I sorta get a little excited at the slightest chance at having a friend."

He leans forward and begins to study me as if I were a book. The way his eyes pour into mine leads me to believe that he wants to know every little thing about me.

"Is that why you go to therapy, because you're bullied?" I open my mouth object, shake my head, even. But I stop abruptly as a thought strikes me—a long heavy one that takes more than a moment to fully process and reflect upon.

I'm bullied, yes, but that isn't why I go to therapy. The reason why I'm bullied is what lead to my going to therapy.

Schizophrenia.

One word, five syllables, a thousand tears shed because of it.

Ever since I was young, I've heard voices in my head. The first was practically born with me, I can't remember a day without it. In the beginning, this voice was serene and generous. In a way, I suppose he still is, he hands out compliments every once and a great while, when the other two voices are asleep. Or just away. I'm not sure what happens to them when they're put on mute.

The first voice was the only one in my head—other than my conscience—for the first thirteen years of my life, if I recall, I sometimes called back to it. Around the age of five, I began to think of it as a friend. I gave it a name and would speak aloud to it. The seemingly lonesome conversations had my parents believing I had an imaginary friend. They really weren't that far off, I deem.

Shortly after my thirteenth birthday, a women arrived in my head. It wasn't a gradual arrival, but, alternatively, sudden. Like an abrupt change in atmosphere, it unsettled me.

The second voice scared me—she was much louder and far more enthusiastic than I would've liked, still is—and I believe the first voice could sense this. There was a period of time when they would talk back and forth with another, arguing. This would upset me to the point where I would start crying. Once, I had a panic attack because of it, complete with a shaking body and screams of agony. That was when my parents decided that I needed to go to therapy—after a long chat with them, first. They wanted to be sure there was something wrong with me before the spend $600 per visit.

Therapy hasn't done shit for me, might I be honest. It gives me someone who I can rant to, to complain to, and be a hundred percent positive that not only will they not tell a soul, but they'll also listen to every word that pours out of me.

Anyhow, within the past six months I've gained another voice—the saying, "Three's a crowd," really is accurate. The newest voice is different than the other two, by far. For one, he sounds like, like a mere child. Also, he speaks in a hushed, murmuring voice. You'd think this makes things better, easier. It's the utter opposite.

He's harsh, always jumping to conclusions on matters we—I identify the voices and myself as one unit—know nothing about. You can always count on him to make hasty, last minute decisions.

Moving back to the bullying. . .

When I was diagnosed with schizophrenia, my parents made sure to inform my teachers. And they informed the councilors. And they informed the secretaries. And they informed the principal. Students overheard and gossiped about it. Like a wildfire, the news spread, until everyone in the school knew about my mental illness. Let me tell you, my peers weren't very sympathetic.

Some genius decided to make an announcement claiming that I was being possessed by demons sent by the devil. After a few days of that, someone decided to spice things up a bit and say that I was possessed by the devil himself. The most widely believed explanation for my schizophrenia is that I'm the antichrist. Imagine what I kick I got out of that one.

There's nothing I can do about the bullying, it's constant and continuous. The worst situations have ended with me in the nurses office with a black eye and swollen jaw, blood dripping from my nose. These physical assaults are what drove me to learn the art of ninjutsu, as an act of self defense. It isn't good for much—when I get into fights it's mainly a large group taking turns beating on me, and I most certainly can't take them all—but it does have its perks. Stealth, for instance, helps me when I don't want to be noticed in crowds. Speed when I have some place to be, or just want to get away from where I am now.

I lost all of my friends because of my schizophrenia. I sit alone at lunch, at the far corner of the cafeteria, in utter isolation. Silence. I hate it. I'm not going to lose another friend, I'm going to fight to keep Raphael by my side. Even though I hardly know a thing about him at the moment. A hunch tells me we'll be great friends.

So I nod my head. "Yeah, that's why I go to therapy. 'Cause of the bullying."

What a lie.

Two days later, at yet another therapy session, I told my therapist, Dr. Chet Allen about the lie I'd told. I'd been making such a big deal about the situation. It's been years since I last lied, 5, to be precise. Lately, I haven't had a reason to lie.

Dr. Allen tells me it's good to tell lies every once in a great while. Especially when it's to keep someone you hold dear close to you. "For you to come to terms with telling a lie over losing somebody; that is the ultimate sign of love and gratitude."

I told a lie, it was the first of many. Soon, there'd be a mound of them, but we aren't on that chapter yet.

Right now, I have a single lie, a little secret I sleep with close to my heart, a truth I won't let anyone know of in the wake. Raphael doesn't know about my schizophrenia; yet. He'd know soon, though.

And that's when we'll take off, like two spaceships into the Galaxy.


	3. Chapter 3

This is taking a rather long time to pilot, I will admit. I'm afraid I'm moving too fast, that my words are too sudden and I'm not giving you enough time to grasp what's going on. Though, what can you expect from a boy like me? I have voices in my head, not words in my veins. No, that's Raphael. I'm merely a host.

Host. What a strange word to use for a human. Yet, so incredibly accurate. My head is home to three voices—at least in the time period of this tale, when I was seventeen. Nowadays, at the age of thirty-two, my mind is quiet. I find it to be rather unsettling. After twenty-two years of continuous screaming, silence is my enemy.

The only time I felt safe—both during silent days and roaring hours—is with Raphael. He was the calm of every storm, and when he walked in the middle of a hurricane, he didn't stop it, no, he provided shelter for me, he pushed the pause button on my suffering.

I never would've been able to repay him, he'd done so much for me in the years leading up to his death. It was fatal, and it happened, I'm not going to hide that from you. You see, in my humble opinion, it wouldn't mean a thing if I told you exactly how this story would end, because it isn't the destination to which you land that matters, but rather, the journey.

Like I'd been saying, though, there wasn't a chance in hell that I'd ever make up for all of the favors Raphael bid me. It seemed like every time I tried to help him with something, it would only result in him having to fish my ass out of trouble. He never minded, though. Actually, he said he liked helping me. It made him feel needed, worth something. He definitely was worth something.

Enough of this, though. Summarizing our Superman-and-Louis-Lane relationship isn't what makes for a fine story. So, I'll start shortly after the point where we'd left off.

* * *

I'd known Raphael for two weeks at this point. We quickly got into the habit of hanging out after school everyday, and on days we had therapy—we were always sure to schedule our appointments back-to-back, considering we had the same therapist—we would walk to a diner for a bite to eat afterward.

The day we're focused on was different than the rest.

It was a Friday, late afternoon, and we were walking through the park together. My hands were swaying slightly at my sides, and excited gleam ignited in my eyes as I listened to Raphael tell me all about the recital he just got done helping with.

"Were you a stage director or something?" I asked.

Bobbing his head from the right to the left then back again, Raphael twisted his lips. "I helped with the makeup department."

Having not expected that response, I chuckle slightly. "Makeup? I didn't know you were into that sorta stuff."

"I'm not, anymore." A small nod from me urges him to elaborate. "Before I transitioned I wore more makeup than all of the Kardashians combined."

I completely ignore the clever metaphor, paying more attention to the part before that. "Transitioned? Like, as in, you're transgender?" My eyebrows raise in utter shock.

"Damn, I forgot to tell you about that!" Raphael fishes his phone out of his pocket. "A month before my mom died, I transitioned. My dad bullied me for it, though, he bit his tongue whenever my mom was around—he couldn't stand to see her upset. In spite of my mom's encouragement to accept the new me, my dad still refuses to respect my choices, to this day. He'll bother me with everything—whether it be incorrect pronouns, my former name; you name it, he uses it against me."

I frown, a heavy glare settling into my sapphire eyes. Raphael's father is a complete asshole, there isn't a doubt in my mind about that. From what I've been told, his father pushes him around to no avail, rarely ever giving his son a break. I suppose I'm not surprised to hear about how Raphael's father reacted to his transition, but that doesn't make me any less angry about the matter.

Raphael hands me his phone, which has been opened to a picture of a gorgeous young girl.

Long, straight brown hair framed her clear face. The amount of makeup worn was rather obvious, if I might say. A thin layer of black eyeliner surrounds the green eyes I've been gazing into for weeks now; this makes me grin. Long eyelashes, busy eyebrows, a dimpled-grin that could light up my whole world, a big, well-rounded nose—he kept all of these features. The hair is the same shade, just shorter now. The new Raphael is far buffer than he was before the transition, of course, he did tell me that in the recent years he's been working out more. I like to imagine he has a six pack under those Nike shirts he's always wearing.

"Woah," I murmur in astonishment. "You were beautiful." A raise of my companions brow makes me fumble with my word choice. "I mean, you're still great looking now, but—"

Raphael cuts me off, a chuckle underlining his next set of words. "I knew what ya meant. If I were straight, I'd totally date past me."

"If you were straight? Are you-" I can't even get it all out. Everything seems to be happening too quickly today. On the bright side, only one of the voices are in my head right now, and even better, it's the first voice, the calm, mellow one. He whispers to me, he isn't distracting.

"Gay?" Raphael finishes for me. "Yes, I am." I can sense his sleepiness, therefore, when I continue the subject, I'm choosing to ignore his discomfort. In all do respect, if he didn't want to talk about it, he shouldn't have approached the matter so unsubtly. Also, I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a thousand questions lined up on the tip of my tongue.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this before?" I ask, a hint of hurt in my words. I thought we were at the point where we could trust each other with these sort of facts. Unless he thought his sexuality and gender transition as a secret. But that would be stupid, because I can almost guarantee that nearly everyone at his school knows that he's transgender and gay. Your sexuality isn't exactly something you would keep on the down low.

"It's kinda strange, but most of the guys I know tend to have it in their minds that I'm gonna hit on them and stuff; even though I would never do that unless I was totally interested. I didn't want you to react the way the others did, and for you to stop hanging around me. Is that selfish?"

I want to laugh and say, "Trust me, I'm doing the exact same thing," because he still doesn't know about my schizophrenia. Saying this would be risky, though, hence the reason I settle for simple reassurance.

I shake my head vigorously. "No, not at all."

Smiling at me, Raphael opens his mouth to say more, but clamps it shut when his phone starts ringing. "Just a second."

We stop strolling as he answers the phone, leaving me to glance around. I study the trees and admire the flowers. I grin at small children in strollers and give a polite nod when their parents glance at me.

I try not to listen to Raphael's conversation, because that's rude and prying into his personal life would be the last thing I would want to do. As of right now, there are things he wants me to know and things he doesn't. I'll listen when he needs me to, but I know when to stop.

I distract myself with the voice in my head. I don't know his name, I don't know any of their names. Hell, I don't even know if they have names! Still, I make silent conversation with the one who is there at the moment. He goes into hiding when Raphael turns to me, his phone already back in his pocket.

"Sorry about that. My friend Mikey just called, apparently there's gonna be some wild party at his place in an hour." Raphael shrugs and rolls his eyes, leading me to believe that he doesn't, in fact, care at all about the party.

Yet, I bid myself to reply politely. "I'm sure you'll have fun at that." The smile I wear on my lips would say otherwise, but deep down, I'm itching with jealousy.

From the stories I've heard, Raphael is one of the most popular people in his grade. Girls wanna get with him, guys wanna hang with him, he's constantly invited to rad parties. And then—here comes the strangest part, the part that fills me with envy—he denies their invitations. According to what he's told me, he only has two real friends other than me—at least, I hope he considers me to be a true friend by now—and they just so happen to be the most unpopular people in his class.

The first is Donald, or better known as Donnie. Smarter than the average 17 year old, Donnie is by far the top of his class. A consistent 4.0 GPA, advanced classes all throughout middle and high school, he even was scheduled to skip a grade three different times. He passed down on the offer, having not wanted to leave Raphael behind. The two have been best friends since fourth grade, when Raphael stood up for Donnie everyday when he was bullied. I hadn't known it up until a few short minutes ago, but Raphael wasn't even a boy at the time. Perhaps, this makes their friendship all the more powerful.

The twosome became a threesome when Raph and Donnie met Michael—Mikey for short—at the start of sixth grade. He's the class clown, and there isn't a second when his lips aren't perked up in an ear to ear grin. Raphael suspects that he's depressed, and his cheeriness is a result of not wanting anyone else to suffer in the ways he has. Raph has never been able to get confirmation of his theory, as Mikey isn't one to open up and talk about his feelings. The only one Mikey truly trusts is Donnie, and Donnie wouldn't dare betray Mikey, not even for Raph.

Raphael snorts, clearly disagreeing with what I had suggested. "I never have any fun at parties. Honestly, I look at it more as a chore than entrainment."

"And why is that?" We're turning around now, heading back the way we came. We are, no doubt, going to have to split up momentarily. I really don't look forward to it.

"Well, if I had the choice, I would never go another party again. But, I see it as my responsibility to make sure that Mikey and Donnie aren't left unattended at a party, because of the way they act.

"Mike will do practically anything for a drink, and once he's had one, he always needs a second. Then a third, and a fourth, and fifth, and so on. Without me there to stop him, he gets out of control and when he's drunk, he's the most foolish man in the world. I really just can't stand the thought of him embarrassing himself.

"As for Donnie, tonight, I presume, he will stay cooped up in his bedroom reading or watching Star Trek reruns. Which is good, 'cause he has terrible anxiety and the crowd would, more likely than not, give him a panic attack, and by the end of the night, he'll be sporting a deadly headache. That's not what worries me, though. If Don finds out that the girl he likes—April—is there, then he'll go out and try to impress her. Chances are, Casey, another guy who likes April and is totally popular, will be there, and then a fight will start. And who better than to stop the fight that me? No one." Raphael heaves a tired sigh. I can tell that he's been holding these words in for a long time, waiting for someone who would listen to his rant.

Frowning, I furrow my brow and fixate my gaze on the sidewalk we pace across. I want to make things easier for him, and since there isn't a chance in hell that I convince him to skip the party, maybe I can make it the slightest bit more bearable; by giving him someone to walk alongside.

"What if I went with you? That way we could hang out more, and the party wouldn't be as terrible for you." Raphael's eyes brighten at my suggestion.

"Would you really go with me?" He asks in disbelief.

I nod.

* * *

It wasn't very hard to get my parents to let me go to the party. For the longest time, they've pressured me into finding friends to hang out with on the weekend and have fun with, and considering I've finally grasped hold of a firm relationship with someone, they couldn't be more happy for me. Also, they've been dying to have a night alone.

Raphael and I arrive fifteen minutes earlier to the party, and already, Michael and Donald's apartment is packed with teenagers.

By the front door, there's a table of alcoholic beverages. In the kitchen, there's another, this time stacked up with soda and punch. On the counter sits five large stacks of Pizza Hut boxes, and more snacks to the side.

Raphael holds my hand, weaving me through the crowd. He doesn't bother to reply to those who acknowledge him, he's too busy scanning every face we pass.

I squeeze his hand as fear pulses through my veins. All three voices are there now, yelling. They speak of hell and death, they claim that I'm going to die, that my killer is in the room. I can't take it anymore, it's too much to take in all at once.

I close my eyes and clasp my eyelids together as tight as can be. I bump into a few people, mumbling an apology under my breath as our bodies collide. All of my energy has strayed away, leaving me feeling empty and deflated. I feel like I could pass out at any second.

A tall, buff, gap-toothed boy slaps his hand across my face when I bump into him. I let out a surprised yelp of pain at the unexpected contact of his skin against mine.

Eyes wide, I have the pleasure of watching as Raphael leaps out in front of me, throwing a protective arm backwards in my direction. I grab his hand, not knowing what else to do.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Raphael. How are ya, faggot?" The boy who's punched he asks in a smug tone, a tease on his lips.

"Shut the fuck up, Casey," Raphael growls through clenched teeth. His lips are curled back in a snarl, eyes narrowed into slits. All of the blood has rushed to his face, making him look ready for a fight. I scoot closer, my chest now against his back.

I don't know why, but in this instance, when a fight is about to break loose and people around us are sitting in a stunned silence, when danger is polluting the air, filling my lungs, I feel safe. I feel safe, because my body is pressed against Raphael's and I can physically feel his spiritual presence. He surrounds me in ways I'd never thought to be possible. I feel stronger. The voices become quieter. I'm a better person. He makes me this way.

"Hey, I'm not the gay fuckboy who's dragging helpless little boys around, that's you," Casey says in a sarcastic form of an oh-well tone. And then he shrugs. I'm pretty sure it's safe to say he's going to regret this in a short moment or two.

Lunging forward, Raphael breaks away from my grasp. He throws himself at Casey, tackling him down to the ground. Everyone backs away as Raph straddles his opponent, bringing heavy, merciless punches down onto the other boys face until they're both yelling—one from the pain, another from adrenaline.

I rush forward, shouting at my friend. "Raph! Raphael, let him go!" My hand on his shoulder is the only thing powerful enough to break his attention away from his victim and back to the real world.

Piercing, emerald green eyes meet mine. They aren't bright, they don't hold the galaxy like they usually do. Instead, they're dark, resembling a sky of thunderstorms. The reflection of my sapphire orbs play as the Lightning.

Calmly, I lower myself down to his level. "You won," I whisper. "No need to keep going. He got the point."

For a second—a very brief, hardly catchable one—he wears a vulnerable expression. His eyes go soft and he stares at me with a sense of helplessness.

Wearing a firm expression, I grab his hand and pull him up and off of Casey. As we leave the living room behind, heading instead down a long hallway, the people behind us shout with rage filled voices. They yell curses and call out in rude tones. I tone them out.

Raphael isn't as great as I am when it comes to ignoring those around him, as it quickly becomes too much for him to handle. He yanks a closet door open and practically flies into the small space, dragging me along with him. I close the door.

There's just barely enough space for the both of us in here. We're forced to stand, as there isn't enough room for our bodies to sit beside each other on the floor.

"I'm sorry," Raphael mumbles under his breath. If it weren't for the overwhelmingly small space between us, I wouldn't have been able to hear the apologetic phrase.

"You're fine," I respond reassuringly, despite my frowning face. I'm not upset because of his actions, but rather, because I could tell that there was something else bothering him other than the party and this small enclosure.

"What's up?" I ask.

Raphael shakes his head.

Knowing I won't be able to get much out of him at this rate, I try for a different approach. "What was that guy's problem?"

Raphael chuckles, an amused smirk settling into its lips. Damn, those are fine lips, I hadn't noticed until I was this close. "A year ago, I lost my virginity to him. He was the most popular guy in 10th grade, star of the football team. Him and his buddies thought it'd be funny to play a prank on me. So, he made me fall for him. Then we had sex and he leaked a video of it onto the school webpage." Raphael is laughing hysterically now, as of the story he's telling just so happens to be the funniest thing in the world. His fake laugh doesn't hide the agony, though. It's so plainly obvious that under that plastic grin is a hurting soul. God, do I wanna relieve him of his pain right about now.

"I didn't know that we were being filmed. I didn't know that when I kissed him, it wasn't all real. I didn't know that when we touched, it was just an act. I didn't know he was faking me. I didn't open my own fucking eyes because I wanted nothing other than for it to be real!" Raphael punches the door, startling me. "I trusted him, I loved him, and he was just pretending for the sake of hurting me."

A wet, salty tear slips down from his eyes, followed by another. He begins to cry, sobs escaping his throat. He hiccups, a trait I find to be adorable.

Not being able to stand the sight of a broken man, I wrap my arms around him and pull him close, resting my head on his shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of my neck.

"We shouldn't have gone to this party," I murmur against the silence.

"Why?" Raphael gets out between helpless sobs. "I told you; I have to go to these parties to make sure Mikey and Donnie stay out of trouble."

"They can keep themselves out of trouble, they aren't your responsibility." Raphael pulls back, a defensive gleam in his green eyes. "Let's go," I start on something new before he can argue with my past statement, "you can sleep over at my house, if you'd like. I'd love the extra company."

Raphael offers me a wholehearted grin. "That'd be great, actually."

He reached for my hand once more, this time, though, he held it differently. He laced our fingers together and he leaned towards me. Planting a soft peck on my cheek, he lifted a thousand pound weight off of my shoulders in one, swift movement. I swear, nothing will ever compare to the feathery feeling of his lips against my skin.

Nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

"This is your bedroom?" Raphael demands in disbelief as he steps through the door. "It's huge."

A blush creeps onto my face as I nod. "Yup. This is it. Sorry I didn't clean up more, I wasn't expecting guests."

Raphael shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Trust me," he reassures, "my room is way worse."

Watching him intently, I sit down on the edge of my bed. Up until now, I hadn't realized how uptight his posture usually is. Most of the time, he stands tall, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes with narrowed eyes. He's on edge so often, that I've begun to see it as the norm. Pacing around my room, studying every poster and object he walks by, I come to understand that this is his relaxed state. Slumped back, hands in his pocket, a faint smile playing on his lips.

'This is how it outta be,' I think to myself, 'the two of us, alone, without the weight of the world to bring us down.'

Across the hall, my parents are in their bedroom, watching some movie I didn't bother to catch the title of. After it's done, they'll call it a night and slip into a peaceful slumber. As far as I'm concerned, Raph and I truly are alone for the rest of the night. Meaning I can ask any question I want, say anything, and no one but the two of us will bear witness.

"Woah, you have so many comics," Raphael gasps in amazement at my collection.

Biting my lip, I try my hardest to consume all of the things I'm dying to say, but it's quickly growing to be too much to handle.

"Why did you kiss me?!" I blurt.

I don't mean to, I swear, it was an honest accident. Actually, I have no idea why that was my first question. Why ask about a quick peck on the cheek when you could be asking more about the boy who punched you?

The boy who punched me . . .

"He's after you," the first voice whispers. The calm tone he uses as he speaks is a whole other level of frightening. It sends shivers running down my spine.

"He's going to kill you, Leonardo. You let Raphael kiss you and now Casey is going to kill you," the second voice shrieks.

"You're both going to die," the third voice hisses, chiming in with the second's claim. "You'll both be dead by morning!"

I quiver, listening to the foul lies the voices feed me. I know it's fake deep down, but that doesn't do shit for me now.

Glancing at me over his shoulder, Raphael raises an eyebrow. "It was an act of gratefulness, I was just trying to be friendly. Why?" He speaks slowly, as if uneasy by my question.

"Oh no," I murmur, shaking my head. "This is really bad."

I stand up, letting one foot in front of the other as I pace. My head shakes faster with every passing second.

"Leo? What's wrong? Why is that bad?" The amount of alarm is rather high, considering he has no clue as to what's really going on. Unless he does.

I stare at him for a second, pausing my movement when our eyes lock. His are wide, carrying an extreme amount of concern. In the outer edges of the irises, I see a dab of fear.

I want to wipe that away, reassure him that everything is fine, that it's merely my schizophrenia getting the best of me. The voices won't let me, though, they're screaming, high pitched and louder than a billion jets flying overhead all at once. They tell me that he's dangerous, that I can't touch him, can't make eye contact, or else the people who are after me will come now, and kill us both.

I disobey the voices, ignoring what they're saying completely. "They're coming for us now! They'll kill us at the first chance they get!" I shout, pointing a finger at Raphael.

He makes a move towards me, taking a few steps at a time. I back away, moving in a rhythm similar to him. At some point, I hit the wall, and I no longer have a place to go as he approaches me.

"Who's coming?"

"Them. The people who are after me!" I bellow.

"No one's after you, Leo." Raphael reaches forward, in an attempt to place his hands on my shoulders. I shrug him off.

"Casey was one of them," I nod my head, positive that I'm right, sure that the voices are correct.

This gets Raphael's attention.

He furrows his brow, his lips falling into an immediate grown. "One of who?" He murmurs.

I ignore his question completely, moving onto other, more important matters. "He saw us kiss and when he tells the others—"

Raphael cuts me off, "Leo, we were alone in a closet, no one saw us. And anyhow, that was barely a kiss! I pecked your cheek; it was a sign of friendship, as meaningless as a hug."

I narrow my eyes, because suddenly, I'm remembering it different. We weren't in the closet, we were in the living room, surrounded by a crowd of drunk high schoolers. He placed a hand on the small of my back and brought me in for a kiss. And it definitely wasn't on the cheek, but rather, the mouth.

"No. No, we weren't in a closet, we were in the main room. And you kissed my lips, not my cheek," I trailed off, lost in thought. The voices are now silent, letting me figure things out for myself.

What if . . . . what if Raphael is one of them?

"See, now you're getting it," the third urged in a giddy tone.

He is one of them. That's the only explanation as to why he wants to be my friend, so that he can get to me, find my weaknesses. A man on the inside.

"You're one of them," I murmur under my breath.

I can barely believe it, Raphael, the boy I've placed my faith in, is one of the bad guys. He's after me. He's dangerous.

"You're one of them!" I shout, pointing an accusing finger in his direction.

"One of what?" Raphael throws his hands up in defeat. He acts so confused, so innocent.

"Get away from me, you-you monster!" I'm hysterical now, curling up against the wall. Tears prickle my eyes. My body begins to shake uncontrollably.

You can see it in his eyes, the sense of helplessness. He doesn't know what to do, he's a state of loss.

"Leo . . ." He's frozen, looking like a statue in the swirling air around him.

"What is he waiting for?" The first voice ponders, his voice echoing against the caverns of my mind.

"No, what are you waiting for?" The second voice corrects firmly.

"Hurry up, Leonardo, kill him! Before he kills you!" The third voice bellows.

I want to—God, do I want to run at him and end it all, all of the worrying, all of the fear—but it's like I'm glued to my spot against the wall.

Suddenly, Raphael breaks the spell, and his legs are working once more. He crouches down in front of me, placing a hand on my quivering shoulder. "Leo, what's going on with you? What's wrong?"

"Please don't hurt me," I squeak. My hands are on his chest, attempting to push him away from me. He doesn't budge.

Staring at me with wide, emerald eyes, Raphael offers me sad smile. "I would never hurt you, Leo."

"How do I know that's the truth?"

Sighing, Raphael opens his arms and folds his legs over each other. "C'mere, sit on my lap."

I obey, crawling forward, into the safety of his arms. They're warm as they wrap around me, guarding me from the dangers of the world. I feel secure for once, as if there's suddenly nothing wrong in the world. It's amazing, what his touch can do to me.

The voices have calmed to a whisper now, and when I wrap my arms around Raphael's neck, the third voice tells me, "Strangle him, end his life before he can end yours."

It scares me, suddenly, because I come to realize the fact that the voices have never spoken out against Raphael. They have for so many other people—my parents, therapist, kids at school—but not a Raph. He's always been the salvation; my schizophrenia disappears when he's around.

The second voice objects to what the third urges. "No! Don't kill him! Not Raphael. Don't kill the poor boy!" Her cries are an unsettling mix of agony and desperation. "Not my so-"

But she stops abruptly, without fishing what she was saying. I'm met with silence; an unexpected, yet, soothing silence. I don't know whether to be scared or relieved.

"They're gone," I murmur, trailing off. I close my eyes and smile, leaning forward to bury my face in Raphael's shirt. A fistful of fabric is clenched in my hand.

"Who's gone?" Raph asks. I can sense the annoyance in his voice as he's left out of the situation, left to interpret it on his own. Truthfully, I'm wondering what he's thinking.

"The voices." Before he can ask any other questions, I stand up, taking his hand in mine as I pull him off the floor. "Come on," I say, "we have things to discuss."

...

It only took a half hour to explain my schizophrenia to him. I told him about each individual voice, starting with the first and going up. He listened intently, soaking up my every word while snacking on a bowl of strawberries that was beside us on my bed.

I take a deep breath, and let it out forcefully. I'm out of breath after the long talking session, though, I will admit, it felt good to get that off of my chest.

I stare up at him with wide, expectant eyes. My head is on his lap as he sits with his legs stretched in front of him. He isn't wearing his shirt, he tore that off when complaining about how hot it was, despite the blaring a/c. I wanted to think about how much of a show off he was, broadcasting that six pack of his like a trophy. But I was too busy wondering how it would feel to rub my hands over the bare skin to consider anything else. The rest of the world was a void at the moment as I fixed my attention on only me and him laying on the bed.

"So . . . these voices, they make you see and hear things that aren't really there? And they're always in your head?" Raphael furrows his brow, thinking hard about the matter.

I nod, frowning in fear that he'll begin to think differently of me. "Except when I'm around you. Save for tonight."

"I must be magic," Raphael whispers with a smile in his eyes. I grin. "Must be."

Ah odd silence settles between us. I don't know why I expected him to carry the subject any further, but now I'm left in a state of confusion. All my life, people have questioned my schizophrenia, so why isn't Raphael?

I choose to let it go, though, because a minor amount of questions is better than an assload. Besides, I kinda like the silence.

His natural musk surrounds me—he decided against cologne today, thank fully. He smells better without it—lavender, mixed with the smell of the strawberries he's eating.

I'm staring into his eyes, studying pattern in the iris. When he glances down to meet my gaze, he smiles, causing me to do the same.

"What's up?" He asks.

I heave a sigh and sit up. I crawl away from him to lean against the pillow beside his. When I'm comfortable again, I turn my head his way. "Why did you really kiss me?"

I wasn't about to let this situation go. It seemed far too important to just gloss over.

"I told you-"

"No," I start with a firm tone, cutting him off before he could repeat his past reasoning, "it wasn't out of friendship. It's very rare that a boy kisses another boy as an act of kindness, much less a gay one. If you kissed me, there must have been a reason."

Raphael grunts and folds his arms across his chest. His lips pout and eyes narrow. If he weren't so incredibly good looking, I might say he looks like a child.

"Fine, I like you, okay? A lot. And sometimes, I just can't control myself." The words weigh down, his voice making them out to be a chore.

I'm not sure how to reply, I've never had someone like me before. And I don't know how I feel about him just yet. Sure, he's attractive, but do I really see him like that?

"But your off limits for me, as of right now," Raphael adds with a sigh.

My eyes widen. "What? Why?"

"Because, you can't mix business with pleasure," he replies, his eyes looking elsewhere.

He doesn't say anything else, but rather, moves onto the next subject. Leaving me to wonder what he meant by business.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey guys. I've been receiving a lot of messages and reviews lately asking me to continue my writing, and I'd just like to clear a few things up. I'm no longer writing on this account, I've transferred over to **nxgmobblepot** , due primarily to a change in fandoms. I may post TMNT oneshots occasionally, but none of these stories will be updated anytime soon if at all. My dearest apologies, and I do hope that you'll all continue to read my writing on my new account—assuming I actually get around to posting anything, my writing is currently on tumblr. Anyway. I'm sorry for leaving all of you hanging, and thank you for sticking with my stories throughout the years. You've all given me the strength I need to believe in myself.


	6. Chapter 6

Hello everyone!

It's been a long while since I posted anything on this account, but I'm back with a very special announcement that I think you will be glad to hear.

I fell out of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fandom last year, due mainly to finding a new favorite show, but also because of the hiatus TMNT had been on at that time. When I wound up coming back to writing these stories, it was shortly after a breakup with a girl I met and fell in love with thanks to our mutual love for the turtles. It was extremely painful to write these stories, so I gave up on them for my own benefits.

Recently, I began watching and finished the show. Since then, I've been considering rewriting some of my own works. The two I've settled on are Cuts and Bruises and Scars and Markings. If enough people respond to this and ask for a remake, then I'll have the first few chapters up shortly. My plan is to rewrite the stories, now that my writing skills are more improved and, well, better. The general plot will remain the same, though there may be a few changes here and there. if anyone would like me to follow through with this plan, and to finish the series once and for all, then please leave a review and I will make it happen. If all goes accordingly, this series will end as a trilogy. Believe me, you'll all want to see what I have in store.

Additionally, if there are any other stories you would like to see in new and better condition, drop reviews or private message me and i will look into renewing those as well.

Thank you very much for taking the time to read this. My dearest apologies for my long break.


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